Are there no wounds for me?
Hast thou received them all?
How can I, Lord, the anguish see,
Beneath which thou didst fall?

2 'Tis over now, I know, --
That suffering life of thine;
Thy precious blood has ceased to flow,
Thou wear'st thy crown divine;

3 But yet, I weeping see
The thorns which pierced thy head;
Thou faint'st beneath thy cross for me,
For me to death thou'rt led!

4 Meekly, with love divine,
Thy holy head is bent,
And streams of blood, for sins of mine,
Flow where thy side is rent.

5 Beneath this sacred flood
I bow my sinful soul;
Dear Savior, let thy precious blood
Wash me and make me whole.

Mrs. Grace Webster Hinsdale, 1868.